


Rx Apathy

by Rueslan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, But he doesn't deserve this, Deviancy means self-destruction, Gavin Reed is a dick, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Privacy violations, between three people, failed revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:51:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rueslan/pseuds/Rueslan
Summary: Detective Reed's attempt to threaten his partner during an investigation into an adult android club ends up going very, very wrong for him.





	Rx Apathy

**Author's Note:**

> There are many, many ways to write Reed900, and I love of all of them. 
> 
> Except, possibly, this one. 
> 
> Creepy stuff, people. Heed the warnings.

He shouldn't have pulled his gun.

No. Fuck that.

He should have waited until the thing's back was turned.

Gavin is pinned. The fact that he's pinned to an unexpectedly soft surface is not, in context, any kind of a comfort.

"The fuck," he wheezes, still struggling to breathe, "do you think you're doing?!"

He shoves at the hand planted on his chest. It doesn't budge.

There's music playing; some techno-pop bullshit which someone, somewhere, had believed that other people, elsewhere, would consider sexy.

_God._

Gavin hopes they were wrong.

He would prefer to live in a world where they were wrong.

He would also, apropos of a punched-out solar plexus, prefer to live in a world without RK900.

"Listen," he snarls, "whatever the fuck is going on in your plasticrap brain, it--"

At that point, Gavin gets distracted. This is because a pair of hands landing on his thighs is a pretty goddamned distracting thing to have happen.

"It-- what?" He lifts his head, craning his neck to see past RK900's arm.

One of the establishment's HR400 models returns his glare with a bland, automatic smile. Its eyes are glassy and vacant. A doll's eyes.

Gavin thrashes, automatically trying to kick the thing away from him. It ignores him, secure between his legs. His arms won't reach far enough to shove it away.

"Fuck off, you stupid fucktoy!" he snarls. He pounds at RK900's arm again. "Get that thing off of me!"

RK900 does not render appropriate relief.

Instead, fingers still splayed on Gavin's chest, it turns the bedside chair around and sits.

"Please attempt not to be rude, detective. I have sequestrated unit HR400. It will be assisting me."

Gavin laughs. "Assisting? There's no assistance for you, plastic. You've attacked a real policeman. Know what that means?"

"Do you?"

"It means you're snapping. Means you're a fucking deviant. Fucking finally." Gavin would be lying if he said he hadn't been hoping for that. Waiting for it. "It means you're done, asshole. Beep, boop, bzzt. Dead."

The android's LED stays a steady blue, a calm complement to a voice which might as well be discussing traffic or the idiosyncrasies of low velocity impact spatters.

"Is that what you believe, detective?"

What Gavin believes, although not without considerable effort to conceive of alternate explanations, is that there is a synthetic thumb stroking upwards along the inseam of his jeans.

"Yo, fucktoy!" he snarls, raising his head to glare down at the glassy-eyed HR400, "I told you to fuck o-"

Something clamps around his neck, tight as a tourniquet. He's slammed back against the mattress.

"I admire your instincts, if not your deductive reasoning. You were correct to feel threatened by my presence."

_Threatened?_

It's such an inappropriate, inadequate word for the sea of seething hatred Gavin had experienced from the first when this thing's too-familiar face appeared in the precinct, at his desk, in his space.

RK900's tone hasn't changed. Gavin can't breathe.

"Had I deviated I would certainly be, how did you put it? I would be... _done._ But, detective."

Gavin's head is wrenched back, angled until he can't see anything except the ceiling, the wall, and RK900's tranquil profile peering down at him.

"Here I am." Its eyes drift over him, flicking from his heated face down to where he can still feel the HR400's fingers tracing over his hip. "Still functioning."

It meets his eyes again. Leans in close. "Odd, isn't it?"

The pressure on his throat eases. He can breathe. If he wanted to, he could speak. He has other priorities.

The thing's LED flickers yellow for the briefest fraction of a second. Then the RK900 sits up and slowly, calmly, wipes the spit from its cheek.

"You currently show signs of sexual arousal, detective."

"The fuck I do!" Gavin rasps.

"Past records of your interactions with both myself and my predecessor display clear indications of physical attraction. These findings have been confirmed by authoritative third-party analysis. Further investigation into your sexual history, including the extremely frequent visits to establishments similar to the one which we are currently--"

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ \--"

The pressure returns. Gavin claws at the bastard's hand, nearly insensible with fury. Only the tiniest corner of his mind is still capable of processing the bullshit which keeps spilling out of the android's artificially perfect mouth. It's the same bit of his mind which had snagged and stuttered over the phrase 'third party analysis.'

Investigation into his sexual history?

Visits to.

To establishments.

To private, fully confidential establishments.

_(Which are not similar to this one, fuck you. The music is better)._

Establishments which do not, goddammit, keep records.

His breath hisses between his teeth. He doesn't know what's happening, exactly, but someone is going to die for it.

Possibly a lot of someones.

The bed shifts. He hears the clack-snap of his belt being undone, feels the tug as it comes free.

_"You currently show signs of--"_

Fuck, shit, fuck.

He thrashes, trying again to dislodge the weight between his legs.

"Stop that, detective." RK900's hand tightens again. Its new favorite trick. It's also an effective distraction, as far as distractions go, in that Gavin stops trying to find an angle where he can kick the HR400's pretty face out through the back of its skull.

He doesn't stop feeling it, though. He doesn't not feel the hands pinning his hips, or the hard outline of a synthetic dick rubbing lazily against his all too real, all too responsive one through the increasingly uncomfortable restriction of his jeans.

"Fuck," croaks Gavin, when he's allowed to breathe again, "stop, stop it, make it stop."

The mattress shifts again. His fly is undone. He feels the unmistakab _(ly familiar because fuck, fuck him, fuck his choices, fuck everything)_ sensation of slightly too-firm lips mouthing determinedly at his not disinterested cock.

Gavin doesn't stand a chance. Not really. He twitches, making one last abortive move to break free. The gesture is unconvincing, even to him.

"Shit," he pants, "Shit, fuck."

A tongue traces one side of his cock. Teasing fingers complete the outline on the other side. Both move slowly, touch lightly, proceeding as though they have all evening and intend to use most of it.

Gavin's eyes flutter shut. His hips twitch against the hand holding him down. Somewhere deep beneath his language centers, some more primal part of him decides that sex now, murder later, is a perfectly ok way to handle this situation.

"That easily?"

"Shut. up." 

Gavin keeps his eyes shut, trying to block out the RK900's voice. The android's hand is still snug under his jaw, all mock-soothing movements of thumb and fingertips while it continues to hold him helpless.

"Amazing. Should I tell you what is happening, detective? What is going to happen?"

There's a breath of chilly air on the head of his cock, then the presence of artificially warmed skin, and.

Touch like electric, the first real intimate contact of overly sensitive skin and synthetic counterpart.

It stops almost as soon as it starts, returns to only touching him through the thin fabric of his boxers. Teasing. Toying.

Gavin's fingers twitch with the impulse to grab, pull, force. He can't. The unit is well out of reach.

"This HR400 model," says RK900, its tone so cool and professionally pleasant that Gavin almost doesn't register the actual words, "this 'thing,' as you say, is going to fuck you. It's going to put its perfectly synthesized prick inside of you and keep it there until you've memorized the shape, the sense of it, the reality of having it there. This _thing_ is going to have you as its bitch, detective Reed."

"What." Gavin makes another frustrated attempt to move, to find friction, mind and body once again experiencing separate agendas. "No, that's. I don't--"

"You do, detective." RK900 informs him.

Gavin opens his eyes to glare at it, ready to inform it about how exactly wrong it is about everything. 

HR400 chooses that moment to slide his boxers down and drag a slow tongue over the meat of his cock before enveloping it completely. 

Gavin hisses, glassy eyes snapping shut. He writhes, tries to get away, tries to find a space where he can fucking think.

"You will be well and truly fucked, detective. Held down, forced open, filled, and fucked."

Gavin snorts out a laugh, inelegant and borderline hysterical. 

"The fuck?" he rasps. It's too much. That tone, _that face_ , those words, that fucking music still bouncing in the background like nausea waiting to happen. 

_This is impossible._

Too ridiculous to be real. 

"But not just yet," says RK900. "Not until you're begging for it."

Shit. Despite everything, there's a very small part of Gavin that already is, already would be, except that his throat is closed tight and he's terrified of what sounds might happen if he opens his mouth.

The HR400 draws back. A moment of relief.

"And what," Gavin speaks through gritted teeth, pinprick tears escaping from tight-shut lids, "the fuck do you get out of this, huh?"

There's a touch at his temple. RK900's fingers soothe along his hairline, tracking sweat into the short hairs behind his ear.

"Your question is nonsensical, detective. I 'get' what a collar 'gets' when it closes around the neck of an unruly dog."

"The hell does that even mean?!" He tries to angle his head away from the touch. It follows.

"Oh, detective." Disgust. Pity. Amusement. Simulated, not real, nothing about it is real. "So intent on hating the weapon that you never asked yourself who was holding it."

"That's-- that's bullshit. I don't--"

"Shush, detective. Your understanding is not required."

Fingertips brush his balls, toy with them briefly before moving further back, and under, and.

For the first time, it occurs to Gavin to be afraid. He hadn't been before, not really. Angry, yes. Pissed off. Murderous. 

But this?

"Wait." Gavin can't reach the HR400, can't even see it. He catches at RK900's wrist instead, scrabbles at its hand. "Wait, just." He looks into the android's eyes and, just for a moment, stares into a hell which isn't his own.

"Don't," he says, voice cracked and desperate, "you don't have to do this."

"No?" RK900 smiles. It's the tiniest uptick at the corner of its mouth, the faintest crease below its eyes. The android's fingers tighten mid-exhale, and Gavin hears the rest of the sentence through the rapidly mounting panic of asphyxiation. "And yet here we are, detective."

Wet pressure closes over his cock-- _they_ don't need to breathe-- and then there's a sting across his neck, RK900's thumbnail drawing a sharp diagonal across his throat. In the same moment, two slick fingers slide into him in one brutally smooth motion. 

Gavin's scream of shock is trapped by the hand on his throat.

He struggles, but neither of them give any indication that they've noticed.

All he can do is nothing, nothing, nothing.

All he can do is feel.

**Author's Note:**

> Beep, boop, bzzt.


End file.
